


By Your Weighted Autonomy

by anactoria



Category: Watchmen (2009)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Rape Role-play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 18:37:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anactoria/pseuds/anactoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adrian has a rape fantasy, and Blake is only too happy to indulge him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Your Weighted Autonomy

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 2009 for the kinkmeme prompt, "Adrian has a rape fetish, and someone is happy to oblige him."

There is somebody in the apartment. Adrian knows this immediately he steps out of the elevator and he stops five paces into the room, listening. The silence is heavy with waiting. Dangerous. Still, he waits for the solidity of footfalls and the snort of a mocking exhalation before turning; waits to be certain that his exit will be blocked by Blake's bulk and his playground-bully grin.

He has been expecting this. It's been weeks, and he has felt its imminence like a charge in the air, pressing down beneath the thin blue of the September sky, humming at the base of his spine. Were he a weaker man, it might be dizzying; as things are, it quickens his pulse and pulls at the thread of a desire, one like the irresistible draw felt on tall buildings and cliff-tops. The imp of the perverse. Appropriate enough, he supposes.

The space of a breath passes. Again. Adrian turns where he stands.

"Thought you'd have gotten better security by now, Ozy." Blake takes a step forward, a sneer tugging at the edges of the scar snarling down his cheek, giving it the look of a widening crack. "Anyone'd think you _wanted_ me to get in here." 

Adrian thinks that perhaps he could push his fingers into the crack, peel off the outer layer of man and find something underneath that is entirely monster. He thinks that perhaps he would like that.

Of course, he voices none of this, just spreads his hands placatingly and graces Blake with a smile that falls just short of cordial. "Eddie," he says, soft and pleasant. "It's been so long. I was beginning to think you had given up on your... surveillance."

A snort. "Surveillance. That what you call it, huh?" Blake advances, slow and deliberate and full of promise, backs him towards the wall. There is violence in the clench of his fist, the flinty spark of his eyes; a violence crouched and waiting, wanting only the tiniest push to break and spring.

"Hmm." Adrian's smile curves towards superiority. He does not check it. "I can't help but wonder what your employers would think, if they were to discover your habit of breaking cover like this."

 _There_. The sneer twists and widens, turns wolfish. And Adrian feels rather than hears the crack, the bright, quick flowering of pain at the back of his skull. The seconds that follow it are Arctic silence and interstellar wind. Now, only now, can he begin to relax.

"Now, what would you want to go and do that for?" Pain moving to the side of his head now, aching thickly, fingers curling tight in his hair. "Might not be able to do anything myself, _officially_ , but I could still make your life a lot more painful. 'Course, knowing you..."

This time the crack is louder, the pain-bloom brighter, and the seconds of cool relief that follow it stretch out for longer. Somewhere in them Adrian becomes conscious that he is slumping forward, clutching at Blake's shoulders for support. Blake's in civilian clothing, today, and Adrian actually thinks that he feels the promise cruelty through the thin fabric of his shirt, each blow and thrust already incipient in muscle and skin. (He holds on more tightly. It's reassuring.)

"I imagine you intend to-- ah-- do that anyway," he gasps, and Blake takes a step back, lets him crumple to the floor. He'll have bruised knees tonight. The cold slam of marble is a homecoming; the ragged-edged breath that escapes him might as well be a prayer.

There is no reply, just a low chuckle, a sound in the throat covering up its urgency with contempt, and Blake's hands moving to unfasten his fly. His cock sticks out unapologetically, a bald demand (no underwear, not that that's a surprise) and Adrian twists his head away to one side. It's a token struggle, a _make-me-feel-helpless-I-dare-you_ , but Blake buries fingers in his hair and twists back like he means it, anyway.

Things are easier, like this. Blake pushing into his mouth, choking and insistent enough to force out all of his words and clevernesses. The cold floor and the pretence of force, just enough to render this acceptable, this kneeling, the obedient movements of head and hands.

Perhaps it is a kind of penance. An insurance policy against the future; instalments paid on a crime not yet committed.

Or perhaps he is simply another moneyed cliche, like the men who left their polished shoes on the Twilight Lady's doorstep after a day on the trading floor and begged punishment, a moment's abdication of responsibility, a game of freedom. Violation as relaxation. There might be a grain of truth in that, too.

In the end, though, Adrian suspects that it is simpler even than that. Blake takes what he wants, and asks for no other part of Adrian: no guidance, no reassurance, no kindness. Perhaps it is just that Blake does not come to him for answers.

Maybe Blake notices the wandering of his eyes, then, because he pulls out and jerks Adrian's head back, snarls, "Something on your mind, Ozy?"

"Plenty of things," he manages, and a trace of his customary hauteur sneaks in, for all that the words are barely-there, each breath he takes shallow and serrated.

"And none of us mere mortals would understand, that right?" Lip curled, grip tightening, then a shove that sends Adrian sprawled and shuddering to the floor, head spinning in the whiteout seconds long enough for Blake to pin him there, heavy and unforgiving. "Doesn't matter. Think I understand you pretty well right now."

Sometimes Adrian struggles. Today, though, it's enough to know that Blake has already bested him, once; that maybe it could happen again, that maybe, just maybe, Blake could do this to him anyway. 

Blake's hands, working at his belt, exposing him. He's on his stomach, then, a bite of cold at marble on skin, breath jolting out in whimpers of something that should be protest, Blake behind him, forcing his legs apart, forcing his way in-- And Blake's cock is slick with spit but it's nothing like enough and it's a pain that comes in sharp bursts and does not give way-- He's pushing back helplessly, finding no purchase on the polished floor, pleas stolen involuntary out of his throat, choke-whispers of _no_ and _please don't_ that really mean _yes_ and _please don't stop_. 

(He's not sure Blake's reaction would be any different if they were real. He probably shouldn't find that comforting.)

Adrian finds himself being shoved back down, then, head colliding with the floor, the impact setting off dark fireworks in his field of vision, and the world goes away for a little while, leaving only the spinning of his head (blissfully empty and cold and free) and the brief, violent respite of a moment in which he is nobody's saviour.

Blake comes with a grunt and doesn't wait around for a punchline. He certainly doesn't stop to ask Adrian whether he's okay. It's probably for the best. Adrian waits for the elevator doors to slide closed before forcing himself up off the floor and in the direction of the bathroom. 

He's aware of the dangers of luxuriating too long in his pretended helplessness. He allowed himself that, at first, but then he started to find himself dreaming of comfort. Of someone laying gentle hands upon his bruises, saying that things would be okay now.

(And after one particularly vivid imagining, he started back to himself with the horrible feeling that the someone had had concerned eyes and ridiculous glasses. He never allowed his mind to wander in that fashion again.)

Adrian switches on the shower at full pressure, closes his eyes, and rests his head against the cool wall tiles. The rush of the water goes some way towards drowning out the things inside his head. He does his best to hold on to the feeling, thinks, for as long as he can, about nothing. Nothing at all.


End file.
